A Matter of Passion
by Keung Liu
Summary: France and England have loved each other for centuries, but they could never manage to make it work so France decides to move on. He finds himself in a much happier relationship with Spain, and the two agree to marry. Meanwhile, England decides that enough is enough — and that all is fair in love and war. He decides to turn things up a notch in order to win France's heart back.


**Warnings: **Please check my profile for a full list of warnings!

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"What do you see in him?"

_Tap. Tap. Tap._

"We've been over this a million times, _cher._"

"Maybe it's because you've never properly explained it to me all the other times."

_Tap. Tap. Tap._

"Maybe it's because _you_ didn't understand."

"You're right." England stands up, a burning heat spreading up his neck and across his cheeks with an intensity he hadn't thought possible. "I didn't understand. I still don't. So, explain it to me —" he snatches the pen he'd been strumming anxiously on the table — "Make me see why you're together."

France stands up as well, determined not to give the other any form of an upper hand. "Why do you care?" he cries, his accent falling thicker as he grows more upset. "You've never cared about any of my relationships before — why do you care _now_?"

_Because I'm jealous, and I want you back. _

"Because," snorts England, with an air of pure apathy. "We dated before. I just thought you could do better than _Spain, _that you held yourself in higher esteem. You dating him makes _me_ look bad."

"You think I've downgraded." With that realization, France covers his face with his hands and laughs. "England, you are truly the most pathetic, most horrible man I've ever had the displeasure to know. Please let this go. Please stop asking me — stop bothering me! _Antoine_ and I have been together for six months now, and in those two months alone I have been happier with him than in the twenty years I've spent with _you!_"

_Because he could never give you what you need, and he doesn't deserve you._

"How very like you," England snaps bitterly. "The one time I actually try looking out for you and you push me away." He slams the pen onto the table, and it rolls away and falls to the floor with a small clinking sound. "Don't come crawling back to me when he cheats on you — you know that man has got a reputation — don't apologize to me when you realize he's not the partner you think he is."

It's petty, it's stupid, but England doesn't have it in him to regret a single word.

_Because seeing you with him, kills me. _

"Poor me," France snarls sarcastically. "To not have you around to cry on when all goes wrong. Let me tell you something, _Angleterre —_" and he stabs England's chest with a finger, dropping his voice threateningly, "You are so meddling, so self-glorifying to think that everyone needs of your advice, so hypocritical to point out Spain's reputation when you haven't one much better. I —" and France picks the pen off the ground — "I hate —" he throws it at England's face — "I _hate you_! Leave me alone!"

And with that, France storms out of the conference room, leaving only England standing in the middle of it.

England rubs at the spot where the pen had hit him, before picking the cursed thing back up with resignation. He's so angry, but then the anger fades away to utter sadness when France's words finally sink in. He sinks backwards into the nearest chair, and cries.

_Because I'm still in love with you, you idiot._

That was seven years ago.

England recalls the memory instinctively, as he's sitting right in the spot where France broke his heart. And at the front of the table — in front of all the nations — France and Spain have clasped hands, and England can't help but stare.

"We have excellent news," France gushes, trembling with excitement.

"Yesterday night, I proposed to France, and he accepted," Spain says.

A delighted murmur goes up across the room.

"We've been discussing marriage for some time now," France says. "It's not a political union. Just a marriage between two people. Our nations won't be affected. We've discussed it with our bosses and they are happy for us — and we wanted to let you all be the next to know."

Someone broke into applause, and the rest of the table followed, accompanying the clapping by cheering, whooping, and crying.

"We're so happy for you!" someone shouted, while another yelled their congratulations. Many stood up to shake France and Spain's hands, or clap them on the back.

There has never been a wedding between two nation representatives before, never in all of history.

It wasn't because it was not allowed, or looked down upon. Even a millenia ago, it was still entirely possible. It was just that no nation has ever stayed in love for long enough to warrant a marriage. Either that, or there was always something else — other priorities — that they had to take care of.

In times like this, though — in times of peace — it should hardly be a surprise to anyone that two nations are finally deciding to tie the ribbon for the first time.

Except it was a surprise to England.

When the cheering quieted a little, England's voice is a little louder than the rest: "But it's only been seven years." He is entirely and completely bewildered.

"What business is that of yours?" France challenges.

The other nations agree with him. "Don't be such a downer, old man," America says, laughing, patting England on the shoulder. "You don't know anything about their relationship anyway."

America is right. England knows nothing. These past seven years, his love for France has never gone away, or even dwindled in the slightest — but he _has_ cut himself off, ignored any news about France or Spain in order to avoid further heartbreak.

But that doesn't matter.

"He was with me for twenty years, and marriage never crossed our minds," England says right back, though now it is only to America. "Twenty years. Thirteen years longer than those two —"

"England," Canada interrupts softly from behind. "I think maybe we should take you home."

"I don't want to go home," England protests, even as Canada takes his arm. The northern nation nods at his brother, a silent language between them — _I'll take care of this; you stay here._

As England and Canada leave the room, England feels France's eyes on his back — _judging _him, daring him to protest their news more. England wants to rise to the challenge — to stare France straight in the eyes and make him explain why he never loved him as much as he loves Spain — but he feels too sick, and can't.

"I don't want to go home," England says again, feeling empty inside, as Canada leads him away.


End file.
